


Pile of Cloth

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-04-20
Updated: 2002-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is time for everything and everything has its time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pile of Cloth

The soft cloak was an exact replica of all the cloaks of the Rangers, so too the well-worn boots, so too the jacket and leather armor that bore the tree in all its bony glory. There was nothing to distinguish the mound of clothing folded neatly by the lake's edge from that of any other Ranger. That the owner was Captain could not be noted anywhere in the pile and the Captain liked it that way. He was diving into the clear pool of water by the cliff's edge, a leap that required some bravery and a little bit of foolhardiness. The former he had in copious amounts, the latter he usually lacked.

Indeed, it was the flashy green and red robes heaped haphazardly next to the soft browns that were the reason for Faramir's odd deviance from character. His brother always brought out the best and the worst of him. At their ages and ranking, there was absolutely no justification for these kinds of antics. None at all.

Faramir let out a barbaric holler and dove head first twenty feet off the cliff into the deepest part of the lake, aware of his brother jumping only seconds in front of him, a sliver of pale skin and then a dull splash.

When they both surfaced, sputtering and teeth chattering it was for a moment impossible to tell them apart. In the dimming afternoon sun, their myriad differences drifted away and left them nearly one. Picking up the odd synchronically they had had as children, they swam for shore, pulling themselves onto the grassy banks heaving, their bodies slick as otters.

"There's something strange about today."

"Oh?" Boromir regarded him without moving from the ground.

"Yes, but it seems...it's just out of reach." he explained, reaching over lazily to run a hand down one firmly muscled flank.

"Perhaps if you don't think about it, it will come to you."

The perverse logic suited his mood, so Faramir accepted it and rolled over in the damp grass to smooth soaked hair out of beloved eyes.

"It seems like a long time since we've seen each other."

"Not as long as you think."

"It feels..." His words were taken by lips made harsh with surrounding bristles. All of that powerful body was swimming over him, molding to his.

Should he be kissing Boromir? When had this become acceptable? Desperately trying to clutch at what was niggling at him, Faramir fought a losing battle. Long years had passed since they had indulged themselves like this and never out in the open, of that Faramir was sure of. Precious memories, few and far between, of illicit meetings and hurried couplings. It was not a question of when it began or how, but rather of why they waited at all. Together they were seamless, fearless and full of a rapture that was surely not meant for human bodies. Certainly for long days after their frantic exercises they were both exhausted and distractible. They siphoned something from themselves, but there must be giving too for after those long tired days, a strange energy would surround them both and power them into actions beyond those of mere men.

The Captains of the White Tower did not meet often, but when they did it was with a resounding clap of thunder, a long storm followed by perfect days. Their men whispered about why this should be so and it was only great fortune that none had ever stumbled on the right reason.

"You taste..." Faramir began, but trailed off. Words, his bread and butter, failed him in these moments and he let them. It was Boromir, often gruff and lacking elegant speech, who poured poems into flesh and filled their shared breath with meaning. Here their roles shifted and muted.

Breath. Hot and warm puffing across his body and the thought he had been looking for surfaced groggily.

"Oh..." He shook his head, startling the man above him as he let out a ragged laugh. "Dreams are a tricky things."

"What do you speak of?" The other man leaned over him, vague concern in his eyes.

"This day, my dear, is merely a product of my overheated and long belabored brain." He held up one hand to caress soft skin. "I have not looked this young or felt this vital in decades. You have not looked like anything at all for longer then that."

"The sun has baked your mind." Soft amusement curled lips into a smile. "You feel me under your hand, the grass beneath you."

"I am cursed with vivid dreams as I always have been. The prophetic of them have left me in my dotage, but they are still often as clear as this."

"This is real, Fari." Now concern overtook amusement. "Perhaps you have had too much sun."

"What sun?" He gestured at the sky. "It is nearly evening and I remember nothing before cliff diving."

"But we have spent the whole day together." The concern grew and Boromir placed a gentle hand on his brow, checking for fever. "We met here and talked throughout the morning. We ate from that basket."

There was a basket where Boromir gestured, but Faramir was nearly positive it had not been there before.

"What did we speak of?" He prodded.

"Is this a test of some kind? I'm not good at tests." When Faramir looked challengingly back at him, the older man sighed. "You're being stubborn. It is not at all flattering. We talked about Eowyn and your children. You told me of Aragorn's plans and Peregrine's passing."

And it seemed to Faramir that he could remember this. They had sat on the shore, already half-shucked from their uniforms and sharing a wedge of cheese on freshly baked bread. The bread was from his own kitchens and tasted nutty. Rolling his tongue, he found a bit lodged in his teeth. Yet, only moments before he had recalled no such thing.

"Pippin has been dead for nearly twelve years. Where have you been all that time?"

He was sure he had the dream there, but Boromir looked down at him in bewilderment.

"Walking the lands as always. Keeping an eye out for you. It is best if I don't get to close, lest I should disturb your life." The older man huffed in frustration. "You asked me this only a few hours ago."

And he had. Hadn't he? He seemed to remember a jumble of explanations, but it wasn't a new memory; rather, it was something old and blurred that may or may not have been somewhere else.

"You are dead." He insisted. "Or at least, your body is and there is nowhere where I could speak thus with you, except for dreams."

"Then perhaps we are not at a where." Boromir shook his head. "I have no words for these things. That is your responsibility."

"When you speak I remember things that aren't true. You tell me stories and they seem to be so, but they cannot be. Taunt me not with these things, long have I struggled to live without you." Bitterly now, he could recall all the long years that had passed though they were not as filled with pain as he had dreaded on learning of his brother's passing.

Eowyn was a sharp shining light, their children his greatest joy. Watching Gondor flourish under Aragorn's guiding hand had been more of a life's work then a spectator's admiration. But underneath it all was a melancholy that never quite faded. He knew that Eowyn felt it too and many long evenings they had spent, huddled close together by the fire, feeling the pangs of loss that never quite faded.

"Why must you always complicate things?"

The scenery shifted abruptly around him and his clothes made their way back onto his body. With his mind aware, they were not the uniform of a Ranger, but his day to day finery that befit one who was prince only in name. Well made, understated and not to far from the soft brown and silver of his old livery. Boromir too regained his clothing and looked none to pleased about it.

The backdrop went blurry for a long minute as if trying to sort itself out, before settling on Boromir's bedroom. It was the one he had had when they were both still living within the shadow of the White Tower. The bed was rumpled and two young boys lay between the sheets, their breath synchronized. The air was filled with the smells of boyish passions and both boys were obviously naked under their thin coverings.

"I remember this night." He whispered softly. The elder Boromir reached over the slumbering two and touched their cheeks.

"I was leaving the next morning."

"And I wanted to hate you for it."

"You wanted to rant and rave, I could tell. Wanted to tell me to stay, but already you were far too reasonable. Instead, you gave me a send off that would leave me with no choice, but to return."

It was disconcerting to hear Boromir whisper over the childrens' heads and for a moment, he wondered if somehow, they had heard this conversation that night in their dreams. Which was impossible since they weren't really here and this was, in fact, a dream itself. Still and all, what if they had? Would they be reassured that they were still finishing each other's thoughts all these many years later?

"Why are we here?"

"Do you remember what we spoke of?" Boromir moved from the bedside and Faramir let go of a breath he was unaware of holding. What danger did he feel they could be to themselves? Even here in dreams, there was something.

"Death. I asked you if we would meet again if you died in battle."

"It was such a morbid question."

"I was used to death." The bodies, even in childhood, had already begun to pile around them.

"I know."

They were quiet together for a moment and the two on the bed curled closer together in sleep.

"You told me that should you die, then I would have to wait until I could follow to see you again."

"And I have never lied to you."

It took a long moment to sink in.

He regarded Boromir from across the bed. The slumbering children gave off heat and the occasional noise. They were really here, he knew with certainty. Poised over a deciding moment in both of their lives that had happened nearly a century ago. Dimly, still overcome with the revelation, he reached for his younger self, touched soft light hair and grimaced at the nose he knew would only grow larger. Easily, he reached over to caress young Boromir's cheek, the downy beginnings of a beard under his fingers.

"Why did you not simply tell me?"

"I thought it would be easier if you eased into it. I suppose I wanted to have some time when you did not remember."

"How much sweeter our reunion would be with all the years in place." Faramir chided, turning from the slumbering pair and crossing to his brother. Despite his knowledge, the larger man was warm and vibrant when he touched his arm. "To feel the relief of time shrugged away and know that we were finally together."

)*(

"My lord, I bring you ill news." The rider's eyes were red with weeping.

"Speak then." The king, ever poised, seemed to dare the messenger on.

"The Prince of Ithilien has grown deathly sick. He may not have lasted out my journey, but the Lady Eowyn bade me come anyway." It was clear by his tone that he would much preferred to be by his liege's side in his last days. For a brief moment, Aragorn allowed himself to remember others who had passed with a similar devotion to the ruler of Emyn Arnen. "She asks that you come to him in his last hours and stay for his funeral."

There was a long silence as the king appeared to contemplate the request. The rest of the court was already in flurried upset. Women began to weep outright while their men hid their faces and spoke in low, choking tones.

Aragorn had made his decision as soon as he had seen the messenger's livery. His thoughts had wandered to his first memory of Faramir as the young man lay fevered. How alive in his sweat and pain he had been and the hand that had reached for his as he healed him, only to be cast away again upon waking. How many secrets the man had carried, how many things he had hidden away from the world.

"I will come."

)*(

They spent the rest of the evening back at the lake. A cottage lay not far from the banks, it was well stocked with foods and furnished comfortably.

"I've spent many long years here though not as many as you have lived." Boromir told him as they tucked into a freshly caught dinner of fish and small tender greens. "I went often to Emyn Arnen and watched over you."

"Death must be very boring."

"Only if one chooses it to be. I have kept myself well occupied, but I was mostly waiting."

It need not be asked for what.

Easily, Faramir can picture a life here, in this small, warm dwelling with its single generous bed and well stocked larder. Days would roll into each other as the brothers awoke to each other. There would be cliff dives, long hikes that would quench their thirst for the hunt, finding horses to ride and racing each other across dangerous scrapes. The nights would be filled with pleasures that were no longer dangerous, except in their threat to annihilate their individuality.

"If I stay here, I really am dead."

His long-dead brother smiled at him and he knew it was true.

)*(

Time and worry had dimmed Eowyn's physical beauty, but Aragorn found her as lovely as ever in all other regards. She greeted him warmly and despite her obvious distress and sadness, settled him in the royal guest room in the manner of any gracious hostess. It was only after a half hour of pleasantries that she led him deeper into the castle.

The withered body that had once been Faramir was still taking breath, but was obviously not inclined to do so for much longer. Tenderly, Aragorn took a seat in the chair to the left side of the bed after seeing Eowyn seated to the right. He took up one fragile hand, frowning at the obvious absence of the man in the inert limb.

"I fear this may be his last day. You have come just in time, my lord."

The tears on her cheeks were not all sad. She was grateful he had come and perhaps, was ready to see her husband leave behind the life that was no longer free and strong. She had nursed him diligently this past year as his health rapidly declined. The dedication Eowyn had transferred from her beloved uncle to her cherished husband shone untarnished through the years.

"I think," he replied softly, "I am days late."

"He would not have wanted to be healed. It is his time, now."

)*(

"It is our time, now." Boromir rose from the table and extended a hand. "There are many things for us to do, words that have long gone unsaid between us."

Gingerly, Faramir grasped the proffered hand and found himself pressed against his brother's body.

"I have missed you." He said again, dumbly.

"I love you."

Hand in hand, they walked to the beckoning bed.

)*(

The funeral was one of the best attended in years, but in the end it was only the Lady and the King. They stood silent at the tomb's side, staring that the stone relief of the man they had both, in their own ways, loved.

Close by, the twin tombs of two valiant hobbits waited to guard the king in his eternal rest. Heavy silence descended as the last of the mourners filed out to leave the royals in their contemplation. Soon servants would descend to escort them to the appropriate affairs, but for the moment they were together in their quiet.

Eowyn thought of his hands on her body, his gentle voice and wise, rare advice. They had been married so long that she could no longer clearly remember a time without him. Soon she too would pass. The grief and strangeness of the world in which she would now walk alone from would take the last of her strength. Her sole purpose would be to see her son settled in his new titles.

Elessar built a strong wall between himself and his emotions. His life was far from over though time had begun to ravage his body, the good blood that had already greatly prolonged his life would see him through many more deaths. Selfishly, he was glad it was Arwen who would endure his death and not the other way around. The loss of Faramir reminded him all too clearly of mortality.

As one they left the tomb, looking out over Gondor from the great heights, searching for the horse that would now never come and the soft smile that was forever lost to them.

)*(

See here, one pile of clothes and here another. Beyond that smaller piles and cries of 'unfair' and 'cheat' rang out over the normally placid lake. Having had the wind knocked out of him, Faramir has already waded back to shore to wrap himself in Boromir's cloak. No use in getting his own soaked.

Merry and Pippin were currently beating the piss out of Boromir at a game of their own devising. The two had tumbled to their doorstep a few days ago, announcing their intention of staying at least a fortnight and then proceeded to plow through the larder. The supplies they carried with them made for a refreshing change from their own, so all was forgiven and many warm greetings given.

Their arrival brought up a few questions, not the least of which was the whereabouts of other dearly departed and exactly how soon would they go questing for them?

"Is that my cloak?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. This is clearly mine as you insist that I own all of you." He smiled beguiling at the dripping wet figure in front of him.

"You, dear brother, are a brat."

Without any further warning, Boromir scooped him off the ground. Taken off guard and tangled in the cloak, he had no time to fight before he was flung unceremoniously into the water. The two hobbits were waiting for him when he surfaced, armed with some rather noxious looking lake scum.

"Are you with us or against us?" Merry asked sternly, hefting his scum menacingly.

"With!" He insisted, trying to breath and sputter indignantly at the same time.

Nodding, Pippin handed him a wad of scum.

"Ready men?"

Merry and Faramir nodded, trying to keep straight faces. Merry succeeded rather better as he had much more experience in these types of scenarios. As a unit they turned on Boromir, who still stood on the shore staring bemusedly at them until they broke onto the grass, hurling pond scum like possessed men.

"Betrayed by my own brother!"

"I was captured by the enemy and my life was threatened." He said solemnly as he squished a particularly nasty bit into his brother's hair. "Purely self-preservation."

"And thus fell the reputation of Faramir the Loyal." Merry shouted gaily, already retreating back into the water, Pippin a slick giggling mess at his heels.

It should have been more difficult to reconcile the rambunctious pair with the ancient relics they had been when he last saw them alive, but they had never lost their vitality. Even months from death they managed mischief that sent maids scolding after them.

They spoke of Frodo a lot and more recently of Samwise. Perhaps, they too would be coming on the dark horizon soon. Or mayhap, they will seek them out on a new quest into the foreign distant landscape.

When the two hobbits were distracted, Boromir brushed his whiskered lips past Faramir's ear. It was a promise of things to come when their friends had retreated to their own dwelling for the night.

Then, Boromir calmly dumped a double handful of mud down his beloved brother's soaking wet trousers.

They played long into dusk, the sounds of their mock war filling the peaceful air and thrilling birds from the trees. Their clothes were muddy and indistinct from each other when they finally trudged home, still laughing and occasionally shoving at each other.


End file.
